


That's My Boy

by trash_freak



Series: RickMorty Trash Pile [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Child Abuse, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Manipulation, Praise Kink, Rick is drunk, dubcon, i guess? idek i don't usually write for other people, morty is too horny tbh he needs to calm down, morty is too trusting, rick feels kinda bad about it probably, rick is gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_freak/pseuds/trash_freak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is persuasive. Morty is easy to persuade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's My Boy

This isn’t the first time Morty has been awoken in the night by his grandpa Rick stumbling drunk into his bedroom; far from it. He’s instantly alert, ready for an adventure or a knife to the throat – it’s impossible to predict which.

“…Rick?” Morty hazards after a long pause in which Rick sits slumped on the end of his bed and says nothing. The longer the silence stretches the more tension sets heavy into Morty’s muscles. “You okay?”

Rick makes an unpleasant noise, a hiccup of a snort, and glances at Morty before looking swiftly away. “No, Morty,” he says with a slur to his words that Morty expected. “No, I’m-I’m pUH-pretty fucking far from okay, Morty.” Morty sits up straighter, bed sheets pooling in his lap. Rick’s hands ruffle his already-wild hair, agitated.

“W-what happened?” Morty asks, worried now, “What’s wrong?”

“Me,” Rick mumbles. “I-I-I’m wrong. _Fuck_.” He lurches up to his feet abruptly and strides away, pauses in the doorway, hand clutching the door hard. He stands there, head hanging low, a silhouette against shadow; stands and breathes and wavers, swaying just slightly. “ _Fuck_ ,” he spits again, quiet and angry, before seemingly coming to a decision and slowly closing the door. The click of the latch makes something twitch inside of Morty; he feels unsettled, on edge, like he should run, or scream. He does neither, just sits wide-eyed, clutching his bed sheets up to his chest now, feeling exposed, vulnerable.

“Rick?”

He can’t see Rick much, but he hears him turn, hears the rustle and light thump of him removing his lab coat and letting it fall to the floor.

“Turn th- _eurgh_ -the lamp on, Morty,” Rick says, sounding a lot closer than Morty anticipated, and he finds himself obeying without a thought, the small lamp making him blink hard against the illumination.

“W-w-what’s going o-on, Rick?” Morty’s voice has gone small and anxious and Morty wishes he was brave but when it comes to Rick he’s never had anything like a backbone. He can feel himself wilting, curling in on himself more and more as Rick lowers himself to sit too close on the bed.

“Y-you-you scared – you afraid of me now, Morty? Afraid o- _ugh_ -of your old grandpa Rick?” Rick sounds about as crazed as he usually does, but his voice is _off_ ; sad, maybe? Distressed?

Morty consciously lets himself relax, lets his arms drop and his muscles go slack. Trusting. He trusts Rick. “Of- o-of course not, Rick,” Morty assures, “I… I trust you.”

Rick lets out a breath like it hurts.

“Morty,” he murmurs, voice gone deep and dark.

The very tips of Rick's fingers drag slow down Morty’s arm and goosebumps stampede across Morty’s body. He shivers against the tingle, fidgets; wants to shuffle back and away but there’s nowhere to go. Rick’s sat so close, the harsh smell of alien liquor making it feel hard to breathe, like the drink is reaching in and squeezing Morty’s lungs.

And then Rick’s leaning closer, and Morty tries to scramble back but his back is already pressed against the headboard. He turns his face away, and then Rick’s fingers are pressing into his cheek, but it’s gentle; not forcing but persuading.

It works. Morty lets himself be moved, moulded, and Rick’s mouth is a little sour from the drink, and Morty’s brain is spinning off into this is his first kiss and it’s really gross and two tongues in his mouth is one too many and Rick tastes fucking awful like booze and dry-mouth and there really must be something wrong with him because his stomach is getting tight with pleasure even though he’s pretty sure he’s not enjoying this.

Rick makes this desperate noise in the back of his throat and Morty gets hot all over, and it’s mainly embarrassment and shame but it’s sort of also pride. He’s never had anyone want him before, never had anyone want to taste his mouth and touch the bumps and grooves of his skinny little ribs. He doesn’t know what to do.

Rick’s hand skims down, across the thin, sensitive skin of Morty’s throat, down along sharp collarbone, down to thumb at Morty’s nipple, and Morty’s brain shuts off. The rhythm of Rick’s tongue against his is slow and steady and Morty can’t stop imagining how it’d feel if his hips were working the same rhythm. He makes a quiet and embarrassingly needy sound in his throat, and Rick _groans_.

Rick’s hand slips to Morty’s waist, and the way his thumb settles in the dip of Morty’s hipbone while the tips of his fingers fit against Morty’s spine makes Morty feel smaller than anything ever has. 

Morty is scared. His chest is starting to hurt from the way his lungs are struggling, the way his heart is hammering. He can’t seem to stop shaking and he knows Rick can feel it and he can’t decide if he wants Rick to stop or not. He wants Rick to stop. But it’s like every minute shift of Rick’s fingers are sparking along Morty’s nerve endings, shuddering right through him straight to his dick. He wants Rick to stop. But he _needs_ to come, like he’s never needed it before.

Morty’s hands are clenched into tight fists in his lap, and he tries to push down on his erection without Rick noticing, but Rick’s mouth leaves his immediately, Rick’s long fingers wrapped around Morty’s skinny little wrist.

“We’ll get to that, Morty,” Rick murmurs, voice deeper and rougher than ever. “I know it’s- I know you’re feeling impatient.”

Rick licks at Morty’s earlobe, and Morty shudders, repulsed and needy; twitches, but even he doesn’t know if it’s to get closer or to get away.

“I-I-I’ll take care of you, Morty. Be a good boy for your Rick.”

Morty’s dick lurches up, his hips jerking, and just the brush of his boxers against his swollen cock makes his stomach tense, makes him gasp and pant and feel full of throbbing pleasure, teetering on the edge of orgasm in a way it would be physically impossible for him to maintain alone. Without Rick’s grip on his wrist, Morty would be giving in immediately, rushing to the finish line, but this is so much better; this is breathless, dizzying pleasure he’d never even thought possible.

Rick is mouthing at Morty’s neck, moving Morty’s hands up to clutch at Rick’s shirt, his hands free again to skip down Morty’s body, seeking out each and every place that makes Morty squirm with unerring precision. Morty’s dick is pulsing like he’s mid-orgasm, his eyes rolling back and his mouth slack, overwhelmed entirely, and he doesn’t think to even hesitate when he hears Rick’s zipper, when Rick guides Morty’s hand down, he just goes with it, stroking up and down Rick’s much-bigger erection like he wishes he could with his own. 

Rick encourages and praises the way he never does on their adventures. “That’s good,” he says, and, “A little tighter, Morty,” and, “Slow down, baby, there’s no rush,” and, “Give the head a lotta love, Morty,” and “Yeah, like that, that’s how I like it,” his breath hot against Morty’s neck, his grip tight in Morty’s short curls.

“Morty,” he says, over and over, “Morty, fuck, you’re so soft, Morty, so fucking good, always smell so good, Morty, like you always just got finished jacking off, fuck, bet you always have you horny little bastard, keep going baby keep going that’s my boy I know you’re tired we’re almost- _oh god_ \- almost-” Rick’s hips jerk, makes the bed squeak a little, and Morty feels his stomach lurch, and he feels like he’s going to be sick, and he’s coming harder than he ever has in his short life, a thin, reedy cry falling involuntary from his dry mouth.

“Finally found something you’re fucking good at,” Rick mumbles, pressing sweet little kisses all down Morty’s throat, running his fingers gentle through Morty’s sweaty hair. “Morty,” Rick sighs, nuzzling behind Morty’s ear, “You’re a good boy, Morty. I’m- I’m proud, Morty, I am, I’m proud of you.”

Morty feels content, satisfied, proud; relaxed and loose-limbed and filled with a horrible, terrifying dread. He feels trapped beneath Rick’s weight, safe and shielded, helpless. He feels ashamed, dirty; itchy with drying sweat and come. He feels wanted. He feels owned. He feels tired.

He puts up no protest when Rick starts rearranging them on the bed, just lets Rick move him so he’s lay pressed between the wall and Rick’s surprisingly solid form, Rick’s arm snaked possessively around Morty’s middle. Rick’s asleep almost instantly, and Morty lies there, surrounded, by Rick’s smell – booze, tobacco, the spice of sweat, some kind of probably-corrosive chemical – and the sound of Rick’s breathing rattling around his lungs, interrupted every now and then by unconscious mumbling and small hiccup-burps. He tries to think this through, tries to figure out how he feels, but it’s impossible to keep his eyes open and he feels like he’s sinking, groggy and weak and drowning in Rick.

Morty wonders how much of himself he can keep letting Rick take before there’s nothing left.

The next morning Rick’s gone and Morty is equal parts relief and disappointment. His bed still smells of Rick, but his morning wood hasn’t failed him because of it. He’s still dirty from last night, and something about that makes a thrill run through him. The inside of his boxers is hot, damp with sweat, and it’s nice, the slide of his palm, but it doesn’t feel… _enough_.

He tries the well-worn and always-successful fantasies he has of Jessica, of what she might feel like, might smell like, but all he can seem to come up with is rough hands and the taste of sharp liquor and tobacco smoke. When he turns his face into the pillow beside him, he tells himself it’s not because he wants to inhale the scent lingering there, but when the musky tang of Rick hits him it brings with it the memory of Rick’s tongue on his throat, Rick’s choked-off voice, hot breath against his ear, and his dick jerks, remembering the drawn-out, buzzing pleasure of the night before.

He’s gasping into his pillow moments later, hot with shame and longing. The orgasm feels lacking though, somehow, and Morty worries at the inside of his cheek and tries to make his brain shut up. Tries to be certain that he doesn’t want it to happen again.

At breakfast, Rick smirks at him like he knows – about the morning shame-wank, about Morty’s confused yearning – and Morty feels hot with humiliation for the entire day.

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom should be bigger. Making me go write my own garbage. Grumble.
> 
> -
> 
> I like to write these two pretty fucked up, because let's be real here, Rick abuses Morty. But what if he taught Morty to like it?  
> My answer to that is: sign me the fuck up.
> 
> -
> 
> Let me know if I missed a tag or warning or whatever.


End file.
